For Whom the Bell Tolls
by universalreader
Summary: It has been four years since Sherlock won the games at the mere age of twelve. But what will happen when he is forced to mentor another tribute for the first time?
1. Chapter 1

***** As those of you who don't lower the IQ of the whole street know, I do not own any of these characters. I also don't own the universe they happen to live in. Rating is M for later chapters. Will post warnings as needed. *****

The mid-morning sun beat down on that scuffed-up metal platform stage upon which several thousand pairs of eyes were focused. If one listened closely, they'd hear varied arrhythmic breath patterns among the crowd members – unfortunately, or so Sherlock thought, nobody else was.

The last several weeks' worth of life was etched upon his face – the barely-covered-up bruises and dark, sullied rings around his eyes were so visible that even the twelve-year-olds in the front section noticed that all was not well with the prodigy.

It was only a fleeting moment, the silence and breathing, before a simpering man who appeared to be doused in malachite, judging by the shockingly green tone of his facial surfaces and clothing, not to mention the various neon streaks in his hair, pranced onto the harshly constructed stage and pursed his lips to begin the opening comments.

"Welcome, welcome, everybody!"

While Stamford prattled on about the Capitol and just how _happy_ he was to be back again, Sherlock grimaced and braced himself for what was next.

"Please join me in welcoming your well-loved (Sherlock actually cracked a grin at that fabulous piece of bullshit) victors, who are lucky enough to mentor your tributes during this year's games!"

Various murmurs rise from among the crowd at the mention of victors, the surprise factor being that there would be multiple mentors this year. None of them, Sherlock notes, sound hopeful, and he's surprised to notice he actually cares.

"Ms. Martha Hudson!"

The crowd quickly moves into a well-organized applause. It's _obviously_ rehearsed and slightly fake – although who would blame them? – but still respectful, nonetheless, and Sherlock can't decide whether to be thankful or terrified for what's coming next.

"And, for the first time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

All the gangly sixteen-year-old can hear as he begins to make his way to the stage are the echoes of his shoes on the resounding metal steps and the sympathetic inhale of the old lady already seated in her folding chair before she begins delayed motions for applause. The damage is done, though, and Sherlock tries to shake off the utter loneliness threatening to invade his thoughts as he attempts to focus on the rest of Stamford's blandishments and the propaganda they're forced to watch every year.

It is not as if he expects the others to treat him like one of them. Hell, after everything, he isn't really surprised they don't treat him like he's human. Despite this understanding and his tendency to accept the consequences of logical conclusions, Sherlock remains disappointed. He was already picked on enough by the others as was for his relatively untimely displays of deductive reasoning.

As the movie drew to a close, Stamford reclaimed the microphone with more gusto, Sherlock thought, than the entire audience would have been able to muster up if forced at gunpoint, though that really wasn't saying much since they practically were already.

"It is now time to select two lucky individuals for the honor of representing District Three in this year's Hunger Games! Ladies…"

In an attempt to distract himself from various resurfacing memories he'd rather not deal with in public, Sherlock decides to count the length of Stamford's obscenely long pauses. It was approximately seven and a fifth seconds before Stamford managed to position his hand appropriately in the bowl, another ten point three of shuffling paper slips around before finally coming to a decision, and five exactly before he managed to reveal the name of the doomed corpse.

"Molly Hooper!"

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and began to scour the crowd of sixteen-year-olds for the brunette. Relatively short, daughter of a factory worker, highly intelligent for a girl her age (he'd had classes with her when they were younger), secretly interested in analytical science (though she'd never admit to it), and, like the rest, far too skinny to be healthy. It was a bit of a pity, he thought, that she was the one forced to make the walk of shame onto the platform with him. Molly was kind to most everyone, particularly Sherlock himself, who didn't deserve it. Actually, at this point, she was probably the only person his age who'd risk their parents' reprimand to smile at him when their paths crossed, as if he was some sort of friend of hers.

She stands there, in her presumably off-white (it's hard to tell with all the dust) cotton dress patterned with rosebuds, twiddling her fingers while Stamford fishes around for the name of her unlucky companion. Sherlock could tell she was holding back tears from the way the muscles of her face clenched in determination, and for some unknown reason he finds it upsetting.

It later hits him – out of all the people who could have been chosen to die, Molly Hooper didn't deserve it.

"John Watson!"

There is a murmur among the eighteens, and Sherlock finds himself bewilderingly encouraged. He's not familiar with the Watson boy, although he's run into the addicted mess of a daughter once too often for his taste, and eighteen is an encouraging number. The winners are most often, if not always, the older ones, and an eighteen male from Three usually causes a stir for good reason.

The masses part around a rather composed-looking blonde, and Sherlock's mind kicks into gear at once.

_Physically capable. Father was a peacekeeper, killed (most likely in an outlier district uprising). Struggling to cope – malnourished and dressed in what are most likely his father's old reaping-wear. Likely possesses significant (and highly useful) background of medical knowledge. Emotionally drained from caring for alcoholic mother and drug-addled sister. Appears to be glad it isn't someone with more to lose – possibly self-deprecating (disadvantage). Must look into that._

Sherlock would have continued deducing if not for the sudden wave of nausea that sinks deep into his stomach as his mind rolls down onto other, far more forbidden tracks… the last time he sought to deduce strengths and weaknesses…

He can't think about that now – not unless he wants to break down and vomit all over the scuffed up metal beneath his feet. He shouldn't have eaten breakfast this morning. He wouldn't have, had it not been for Mycroft and his ridiculous insistence on interfering in business that is not his own.

Sherlock tries to ignore everything but the Watson boy.

John Watson has now taken the stage. John Watson just shook hands with Molly Hooper. John Watson is now being shepherded off into the cog-shaped structure known as Town Hall.

Sherlock knows he's supposed to follow, but stays frozen where he is until Ms. Hudson nudges him politely and offers her hand. He takes it and exits the stage with her, doors closing behind them, sealing them in an atrium adorned with hideous scrap-metal vases and sculptures.

"Mentors – fifteen minutes until departure," Stamford notes, leaning on an impressively ugly metal structure that Sherlock believes was supposed to be an umbrella stand. "I'm going to head over to the tribute rooms. You ought to use the loo before we head over to the station."

Sherlock nods and waits until both he and Ms. Hudson are gone to throw up in one of the vases.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thanks to you lovelies who reviewed – I'm so sorry it took me so long to get the next chapter out... Real Life interfered. I've got the whole story planned in my head, so I'll finish it, I swear. Expect the rest to come in a far more orderly fashion. The next one might even be out tomorrow._**

**_As always, I own no characters here/I don't own the HG Universe either, so if you were for some reason under the impression that I did, I'm sorry to disappoint you._**

Sherlock is mildly aware that they've been on the train for approximately one hour, fifty-three minutes, and forty-seven seconds (he's been counting) before Ms. Hudson knocks on the door of his room.

He doesn't respond – he knows she'll come in anyway, and in that Ms. Hudson does not fail to disappoint him. She quietly steps up to the bed on which Sherlock is sitting, arms wrapped around knees.

"We're about to watch the other lotteries," she spoke tenderly, "The others could really use a bit of your help here, dear."

Sherlock presses his lips together, eyes closed in understanding. Of course Ms. Hudson wants him to take a look at the reapings – it's a wise tactical move, and Sherlock's strength in this case would only enhance the chances of Molly or John's potential survival, which is the main reason he's supposedly here anyway.

He nods once, carefully, in agreement, and slowly releases his legs and moves to get up, following Ms. Hudson out through the automatic door and eventually two more train cars until they reach the lounge, where the heads of the two tributes immediately turn to see who's there. John doesn't seem to be aware that he's drumming his fingers against his knee, while Molly is anxiously fidgeting with the hem of her dress, but Sherlock thinks them extremely well composed considering their situation. The three children stare at each other, each waiting for the next to say something first.

Sherlock is the one to bite the proverbial bullet.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

He knows what it feels like to be in that chair, and right now he's blessing Ms. Hudson for having the courage to do this year after year, watching child after child die, and knowing that she's almost entirely powerless in this situation.

Almost.

Sherlock almost grins to himself, but catches himself just in time, remembering what he's just said. He continues, "You both, however, have the potential to do extremely well in this situation."

At that, Molly flushes a little (interesting response – surely the result of a rising heart rate upon being complemented, or something else?), while the Watson boy raises his eyebrows as if to challenge that statement (definitely self-deprecating, Sherlock thinks to himself. _Need_ to work on that).

"Don't give me that. Molly – you're obviously more intelligent than most. I've seen you in classes. What's more, you're particularly modest about it, and a relatively short girl from Three, so you can get away with using it as a surprise factor. Most other tributes, particularly the Careers, will underestimate you. That's got a lot of potential. John – aside from the obvious advantage of age and physical strength, I'm willing to bet that you have a particularly large range of medical knowledge stemming from your apprenticeship with the surgeon, which will not only come in handy if you find yourself injured, but will also be useful when foraging for food in the arena. Plant knowledge is nothing to underestimate. What's more, from the state of your family, your sister in particular, it's apparent that you react well under pressure and are used to dealing with hostile environments. Now, I would very much appreciate it if you put aside your feelings of insignificance and pretended that you at least felt capable of surviving the first day long enough for us to watch the other reapings and gather all the information we can about your opponents."

With that, Sherlock bit his tongue, knowing he'd gone a bit far and waiting for the irate retort that was surely to follow from the older boy. John, however, merely blinked at him, a bewildered look on his face.

"Blimey. No wonder you won – that was amazing."

It was now Sherlock who appeared thoroughly confused. Not the reaction he'd been expecting. Best to move ahead, he supposed, and reflect on his minor miscalculation later (the Hooper girl had, as expected, blushed at his praise).

"Thank you, I suppose, if that was a complement…? Let's get to business – it's time to see what you're up against."

With that statement and a nod from the young mentor, Ms. Hudson turned on the screen.

_"…This year's lotteries have pulled tributes with serious potential…"_

"Oh, Ms. Hudson – skip that waffle. Fast forward to the reapings."

"Lotteries, Sherlock!"

The boy shook his head, waving his hand to indicate he could care less about the proper use of the official (and somewhat sugarcoated) term. "Yes, thank you, whatever. Forward, please."

"…_And now, the female tribute from District 1…. Please welcome… Royal!"_

The others watched as the dark-haired boy stared silently at the screen.

Sherlock, however, was too busy paying attention to the dark haired daughter of the mayor (_Obviously – her reaping dress was incredibly ornate, even for District One._) and her sly grin at the female mentor (_Definitely career. Most likely trained by the mentor herself – Oooh. In more than just fighting and survival skills, apparently, judging from the wink she received back. Ms. Adler was dallying with District royalty, apparently. Scandalous)._

While the girl climbed the stairs onto the platform, Sherlock was too wrapped up in deductions to actually remember to share them with Ms. Hudson and the others (_Well nourished all her life, presumably. Confident in her own abilities, judging from her posture. Strong shoulders – specialty in thrown weapons, I presume. Must be good enough, to have won the slot at fifteen)_. It wasn't until John cleared his throat that Sherlock refocused on the room around him and shared what he'd been thinking.

Having finished his evaluation of Royal's fighting potential, Sherlock had just gotten to the bit about her blatant affair with Irene Adler, the mentor, before Ms. Hudson spluttered indignantly and told him that was "quite enough on that one, thank you." The boy looked around, gauging the others' reactions. Molly had, as expected, blushed, while John cracked a smile for the first time since…well, really since Sherlock had properly seen him.

Twenty-one tributes later, Sherlock had separated the threats from those Molly and John would not need to bother with, elaborated on each and every weakness he could glimpse (moreso in the case of the stronger ones), and had given them explicit instructions on who they really ought to not have notice them right away (Irene's girl from One – Royal – and both of Morans' tributes from Two – Kitty and Rich). He paused, for a moment, before adding, "Do you want to watch yours? It might be advisable – that way you have the advantage of knowing how the audience experienced it."

John shrugged, before murmuring, "I suppose."

The young mentor turned to Molly, who also nodded, although she looked a bit close to tears again. Sherlock would have to speak with Ms. Hudson about it. Hopefully the girl would have a good cry tonight and then be able to pull herself together for the rest of the trip. Self pity wasn't a marketable trait, but then again, Sherlock was forced to admit to himself, unless something took out John, Molly's survival wasn't likely.

For some reason foreign to him, Sherlock had not wanted to evaluate his own two tributes against each other the same way he'd considered how they'd match up against the others, but for practicality's sake, pretending they'd both come home wasn't an option.

The injustice of it all was stifling.

Either John Watson or Molly Hooper was going to die horribly in front of everyone who ever knew them, and although he didn't want to admit it, there was definite chance that they both would.

Sherlock didn't want to do this.

No matter what happened in the arena, the blood of Molly, John, or both would stain his hands for the rest of his existence. As the newest mentor, the cold shoulders of his District after he'd emerged victorious (if one could even call it _victory_) would be nothing to the venomous treatment he'd get if they both died.

He _had_ to get at least one of them through this. Then, maybe, his life would start to be better again, right? It wouldn't be so bad, anymore, with someone who he could relate to and actually talk to without getting scowled at.

Just then, Stamford walks in to announce dinner, and Sherlock wants to punch him because he planned on escaping back to his solitude so Ms. Hudson wouldn't be able to corner him in front of everybody and he'd not have to sit through dinner listening to Stamford blather on about useless crap or even eating, really.

Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to eat. Digestion interfered with his thinking process, or so he told himself, and he'd already eaten once today and look where that got him.

He turned to Ms. Hudson, as if to begin his excuse, and she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, challenging him to try her. Foiled, Sherlock glared a bit (pointless, although the impulse to express his frustration was too strong to ignore) and followed Stamford and the others towards the dining car, Ms. Hudson at the rear.


End file.
